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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29535714">electromagnetism, and the futility of fighting physics</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerscully/pseuds/dangerscully'>dangerscully</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Better Call Saul (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon, just about</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:40:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,054</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29535714</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerscully/pseuds/dangerscully</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Is this crossing one of their lines? Are her fingers betraying her, as they toy gently with the reddish curtain that she’s repeatedly brushing softly out of his face?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>electromagnetism, and the futility of fighting physics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her fingers run absentmindedly through the auburn hair falling across his forehead while the television drones with the sounds of a movie that she’s not once paid attention to. He’d shown up at her door earlier in the evening, Thai food in hand, ranting about what a shitshow of a day he’d had; unappreciated and underpaid. The rant had bubbled up more than once even after the food was finished and the movie had started, with his head eventually finding a place in her lap as he conducted a post-mortem on the exhausting afternoon he’d had at court. Over an hour later and his head remains there as a comforting weight against her thighs; his eyes closed and his shallow breathing relaxed. It’s quiet, but the rhythmic sound draws all of her attention away from whatever is going on on the screen opposite and towards him. She’s always drawn towards him. </p><p>
  <i>Is this crossing one of their lines? Are her fingers betraying her, as they toy gently with the reddish curtain that she’s repeatedly brushing softly out of his face? </i>
</p><p>It’s become harder and harder to tell lately. They’ve once again been orbiting each other with an increased gravitational pull, dancing and flirting with this boundary line that’s been becoming greyer by the day. </p><p>It’s cyclical. Like magnets, they’re unable to fight the pull between them. But actually crossing that line only reverses the polarity and pushes them apart, creating a yawning chasm between them, time and time again.</p><p><i>He’s asleep</i>, she reminds herself. <i>And something as innocent as this isn't stepping over that line.</i> But how can indulging in such innocence make her feel so guilty? </p><p>The credits roll on the television, and he stirs. </p><p>“What did I miss?”</p><p>“Very little. Not your greatest choice. Maybe you’re losing your edge?”</p><p>“You wound me, Wexler.” He clutches his chest as dramatically as he can in his groggy, horizontal state.</p><p>Realising her hand is still curved around the crown of his head, she adjusts herself and sits up straighter. He reacts similarly, sitting up as an uneasiness threatens to disrupt the calm. </p><p>He clears his throat. “I should get going”. He makes no move to stand up.</p><p>Get going. <i>To that uncomfortable pull-out in that cramped office of his.</i> She frowns thoughtfully <i>– is he even hinting at an alternative or does she just want him to be? –</i> and the silence goes on a little too long, until she offers one word and a decisive nod of her head: “Stay”. It’s not a question.</p><p>She pushes herself up and walks towards her bedroom, grabbing her pyjamas and changing in the bathroom. It isn’t until she reemerges that she realises that he hasn’t followed her from the couch.</p><p>“Jimmy, c’mon. My couch isn’t exactly much of an improvement on your office set-up. Don’t make it weird.”</p><p>And so he follows her into the bedroom, hovering awkwardly before making the decision to strip down to his boxers and quickly climbing underneath the covers.</p>
<hr/><p>She’s on her side, facing the outside of the bed. Sleep has claimed her briefly a few times, but keeps cruelly releasing her. It’s been a while since she’s had a warm body sharing her bed, and her mind won’t relax enough to be pulled under fully. Especially when that force drawing them together has been making its presence known ever since she carefully made that suggestion – <i>stay</i>. The crackling of electricity, the pull of magnets; she can always feel physics working its forces on the two of them.</p><p>Drifting off for what feels like mere moments, she’s awoken again by a a slight tug on the back of her head, and then a gentle repetitive movement behind her. She realises with a soft jolt that he is stroking the hair that has fanned out across the pillow behind her. His fingertips must have snagged in a tangle. That he’s mirroring her earlier actions is not lost on her. </p><p>She tries to keep her breathing even and hide the fact that she’s now more awake than she’s been all evening <i>– was he doing the same thing earlier? –</i> and allows herself to indulge in this forbidden intimacy.</p><p>His fingers brush against the nape of her neck <i>– that was surely a mistake on his part? –</i> and she starts. Unable to hide the fact that she’s awake any longer, she rolls onto her back and glances over at him with a slight smirk. </p><p><i>Gotcha. Caught in the act.</i> </p><p>Soft light pools in from her window, lighting his profile just enough for her to see the surprise in his eyes. </p><p>“I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice is scratchy and tender.</p><p>She shrugs. “I’ve been drifting in and out for a while.”</p><p>“Oh so you…”, he trails off, the question lingering in the air.</p><p>They lock eyes in the silence, a warm companionship enveloping them. The moment stretches out comfortably, neither of them looking away, until he softly clears his throat.</p><p>“Hey Kim?” A pause. “Happy birthday.”</p><p>She glances over at the digital clock on her dresser that shows that it is almost an hour after midnight. Raises her eyebrows, closes her eyes, and exhales. Says nothing.</p><p>An eternity passes, or perhaps just seconds. His fingers are still laced in her hair. He seems to realise this, and a faint expression of embarrassment crosses his face. But before he can withdraw his hand entirely, she reaches over and once again brushes aside the soft sweep of hair that’s falling into his eyes, cups his face softly. He looks at her and the electricity between them crackles <i>– can he feel it in his spine like she can feel it in hers?</i></p><p>And maybe it’s that electricity that compels her to close the distance between them. And maybe it’s that magnetism that compels her to brush her lips against his.</p><p>She pulls back, arches an eyebrow at him, wordlessly asking if this is ok – if this is going to cause consequences which will alienate themselves from each other all over again. He looks stunned – he always looks shocked when she kisses him, confused about why she'd even want to. She wishes he could see himself through her eyes.</p><p>But then he’s kissing her back, and he’s pulling her into his side, and his hand is wandering, and she’s lying on top of him pressing him into the bed, and he’s desperately clutching her close, and she’s on top of him and he’s inside of her and her nails are leaving indents on his back and his fingertips are bruising the tender flesh of her arms and she’s biting softly above his collarbone and he’s swallowing expletives and she’s gasping his name softly into his ear as she shudders around him and –</p>
<hr/><p>She pads softly back into the room from the bathroom. Sliding underneath the covers, she kisses his shoulder gently, offers him a small smile, and settles in. He wants to say something, she can feel it. She can sense it, a static in his silence.</p><p>And sure enough, “I know you don’t ‘do’ birthdays, but -“</p><p>“Jimmy.”</p><p>“-but”, he continues, “maybe that should change.”</p><p>She looks at him with a slight furrow to her brow, her mind defiantly fighting the urge to actually celebrate a birthday like a regular person.</p><p>“I’m not talking anything grand, I know that’s not you and you know damn well it's not me. But let me take you out, you should celebrate!"</p><p>He looks at her, trying to gauge her reaction, unreadable as always.</p><p>"I’ll be celebrating on your behalf either way…" he continues, "but if I’m gonna do that, it’d be weird if you weren’t there too. A man out alone, celebrating the birthday of a woman who won’t even join him? Pathetic! You gotta take pity on that, surely?”</p><p>She goes for an admonishing look but her poker face, which rarely fails her, cracks as the corners of her mouth quirk upwards. There’s an amusing temptation to let him carry on, to let the stream of consciousness flow now that the dam has broken. </p><p>“Jimmy, it’s not–“</p><p>“The Dog House? Low key! No pressure. C’mon, you know I’m not one to take no for an answer, not for something as important as this”.</p><p>“Fine!” she laughs. “Fine. You can take me to the Dog House”.</p><p>“I’m sure there’s an innuendo in there if–“</p><p>“Don’t push it.”</p><p>The return to quiet is companionable this time, and she looks over at him with a smile in her eyes.</p><p>“Goodnight, Kim. Happy birthday.”</p>
<hr/><p>She’s pulled from sleep by the insistent beeping of her alarm clock, too early after so little sleep. The bed next to her is empty, but a hint of residual warmth emanating from the sheets suggests that they’ve not long been vacated.</p><p>Stretching and yawning, she slips out of bed and heads towards the kitchen, drawn towards the sounds of movement there and the smell of food. <i>That damn magnetic field of his.</i></p><p>
  “Sit”, he commands, pointing at one of the stools behind the counter. He puts a plate in front of her with a flourish. “I believe cultured people would say ‘bon appétit’ here.”</p><p>She grins and looks down at the scrambled egg placed before her.</p><p>“I didn’t know you spoke French so well, monsieur.”</p><p>“Oh oui mademoiselle, fluently! ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?’, and, uhhh, ‘vous avez une belle derrière’, and–“</p><p>“You didn’t have to do this, Jimmy,” she interrupts. And then, quietly, “thank you. It smells great”.</p><p>“Hey, nothing but the best for the birthday girl. Even if the best that I can offer is slightly runny eggs. And here”, he says, pushing a small gift box across the counter. “Don’t freak out. It’s nothing.”</p><p>She opens it and groans, before suppressing a giggle with a snort.</p><p>“Wow, personalised and everything, huh?”, she says, pulling out a silver keyring in the shape of a K.</p><p>“How could I not get that? It screams ‘Kim Wexler!’, right?”</p><p>“Oh, sure. Another for the collection.”</p><p>“'Jimmy McGill – Public Defender, part-time curator of Ks'. Not to spoil anything but next year you can probably expect a matching fridge magnet. I think that bookend last year really was the start of something special.” He grins at her. “Speaking of public defending, I gotta get going. No rest for the wickedly underappreciated!”</p><p>He grabs his jacket and heads to the door. With a wink, a single finger gun, and a promise to pick her up after work, he heads out, leaving her toying with the eggs.</p><p>It hits her moments after the door clicks shut behind him, this absurd, self-inflicted loneliness. The knife edge that the two of them balance on to avoid needing labels. The forces of physics that they surely both know that they’re fighting, and losing. The pathetic nature of eating scrambled eggs alone on her birthday.</p><p>Making her breakfast? That’s fine. Sticking around while she eats it? Oh no, that’d be way too intimate, way too complicated.</p><p>She tries not to acknowledge what she knows. Because of course she knows how he feels about her, how could she not? He doesn’t need words when his emotions are written on his face, and demonstrated in a plate of eggs and a cheap keyring.</p><p>She knows that him leaving like this, in an upbeat way – such a "Jimmy McGill" way – is an act of self-preservation on his part. Today they carry on as normal, as if nothing happened. As if they'd resisted the magnetism last night.</p><p>And there’s the most dangerous thing that she knows... she knows how she feels about him. So long as she refuses to acknowledge that to herself, she doesn’t have to confront it. She can continue to compartmentalise. It’s worked <i>– has it really, Kim?! –</i> for over eight years, it can work a little longer. She knows it can.</p><p>She finishes her eggs, dumps the plate in the sink, and walks over to the fridge, pulling off a piece of plastic emblazoned with the Route 66 sign. She picks up the silver keyring from the counter and turns it over in her hands, watching it catch the morning light. Her reflection distorts in the corners of the letter as she brings it towards the fridge magnet.</p><p>She feels the insistent force pulling the two objects together. </p><p>Physics always wins.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Uh-oh, dancing past the point of no return</i><br/><i>Let go, we can free ourselves of all we've learned</i><br/><i>I love this secret language that we're speakin'</i><br/><i>Say it to me, let's embrace the point of no return</i><br/>— Magnets - Disclosure ft. Lorde</p><p>just pretend that i posted this a week ago<br/>
</p>
<p>(also this is the first thing i've written so plz be gentle)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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